The Chuckwagon Trail

by William W. Johnstone

  The bartender picked up the bill, examined it, and tucked it away. “Don’t usually take Yankee bills, but seeing’s as how you’re in pain, I will this time.” He splashed more whiskey into Mac’s empty glass.

  Mac started to protest at not getting change. As the second shot hit his gut and set his head spinning, he forgot about it. What difference did it make anyway? He had to find a way to sneak Evie out of the house and get her to a judge for a proper marrying.

  “Do tell.”

  Mac blinked and frowned. He hadn’t realized he had been talking out loud, but obviously the bartender knew what he’d been thinking. He ran a shaky finger around the rim of his empty shot glass and captured the last amber drop. He licked it off his fingertip. The astringent burn on his tongue warned him that another drink might make him pass out.

  “I’ll find a way,” he said, with more assurance than he felt. He needed both hands on the bar to support himself.

  As he considered a third drink, he noticed how the sound in the saloon went away. All he heard was the pounding of his pulse in his ears. Thinking the drink had turned him deaf, he started to shout out for another, then saw the frightened expression on the barkeep’s face. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the reason.

  The two guards who had been stationed outside Micah Holdstock’s front door now stood just inside the saloon, arms crossed over their chests. Those arms bulged with muscles. The men fixed steely gazes on him. Out of habit—or maybe desperation—Mac patted his right hip but found no revolver hanging there. He had dressed up for the occasion of asking Evie to marry him. There hadn’t been any call for him to go armed.

  He knew now that was a big mistake. He turned and had to brace himself against the bar with both elbows. He blinked hard, as much from the smoke as the tarantula juice he had swilled. Hoping he saw double and only one guard faced him, he quickly realized how wrong that was. There were two of them, and they had blood in their eyes.

  “You gonna stand there all night or you gonna come for me?” He tried to hold back the taunt but failed. The liquor had loosened his tongue and done away with his common sense. Somewhere deep down in his brain, he knew he was inviting them to kill him, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Well? Come on!” He balanced precariously, one foot in front of the other, fists balled and raised.

  The one who looked like a boxer stirred, but the other held him back.

  “Waiting for the bell to ring? Come on. Let’s mix it up.” He took a couple of tentative punches at thin air.

  “Mister, that’s Hiram Higgins,” the bartender said, reaching across the bar to tug at his sleeve. “He lost to Gypsy Jem Mace over in Kennerville.”

  “So that just means he can lose to me just east of Jackson Square.”

  “Mister, Gypsy Jem whupped Tom Allen the next day for the heavyweight championship.”

  “So? You said this man Higgins lost.”

  “He lost after eighteen rounds. Ain’t nobody stayed with the Gypsy longer ’n that. The man’s a killer with those fists.”

  Mac wasn’t drunk enough to tangle with Holdstock’s guard, not after hearing that. But the boxer stepped away deferentially when a nattily dressed man stepped into the saloon. The newcomer carefully pulled off gloves and clutched them in his right hand. He took off a tall top hat and disdainfully tossed it to the boxer. Walking slowly, the man advanced on Mac.

  “You are the one? You?” He stopped two paces away from Mac, slapping the gloves he held in his right hand across his left palm.

  “I’m your worst nightmare, mister.” Still emboldened by the booze, Mac flipped the frilled front of the man’s bleached white shirt. A diamond stud popped free. The man made no effort to retrieve it from the sawdust on the floor. He stared hard at Mac.

  “You are drunk. But of course you are. Do you know who I am?”

  “Not a clue. Some rich snake in the grass from the cut of your clothes.” Mac tried to flip his finger against the man’s prominent nose this time. A small turn of the man’s head prevented him from delivering the insulting gesture.

  “I am Pierre Leclerc, the son of Antoine Leclerc.”

  “I’ve heard the name. Somewhere.” Mac tried to work out why the name was familiar. His head buzzed with a million bees inside it, and he was definitely seeing double now. Two of the annoying men filled his field of vision. He tried to decide which one to punch.

  “He owns the largest shipping company in New Orleans. It is one of the largest in North America.”

  “So? You’re rich. What of it?”

  “You will leave Miss Evangeline Holdstock alone. You will never try to see her again. She wants nothing to do with you.”

  “Why’s that, Mister Fancy Pants?”

  “Because she and I are to be married. This very night my father arranged for her hand in marriage to unite her father’s bank and our shipping company.”

  “Your pa’s gonna marry her?”

  “You fool!” Leclerc exploded. “You imbecile. I am to marry Miss Holdstock. You have given me the last insult that will ever cross your lips.” He reared back and slapped Mac with the gloves. A gunshot would have been quieter as cloth struck flesh.

  Mac stumbled and caught himself against the bar. He rubbed his burning cheek.

  “Why you—”

  “You may choose your weapons. At the Dueling Oaks, tomorrow at sunrise. Be there promptly or show the world—and Miss Holdstock—the true depth of your cowardice.” Leclerc slapped his gloves across his left palm for emphasis, spun and walked from the saloon. The two guards followed him.

  “What happened?” Mac said into the hollow silence that hung in the air when Leclerc was gone. He was stunned into sobriety.

  “You’re going to duel for this hussy’s favor at sunrise,” the bartender said.

  “With guns?”

  “You’d be wise to choose pistols. Leclerc is a champion fencer. He can cut a man to ribbons with a saber and walk away untouched.”

  “Heard tell he’s a crack shot, too,” piped up someone across the saloon.

  “Eight men he’s kilt in duels,” another man said. “The fella’s a fightin’ machine—a killin’ machine. I don’t envy you, boy. Not at all.”

  Mac found himself pushed away from the bar by men rooting around in the sawdust looking for the diamond stud that had popped off Leclerc’s shirt. He watched numbly, wondering if he ought to join the hunt. That tiny gemstone could pay for passage up the river.

  Then he worked through what that meant. Evie would call him a coward for the rest of her life. And running would show how little her love meant to him. He loved her with all his heart and soul.

  If it meant he laid down his life for her, so be it. He would be north of town at the Dueling Oaks at dawn.

  After another drink.

  Or two.

  CHAPTER 3

  “You sober?”

  Dewey Mackenzie made an attempt to force away the hand shaking his shoulder. He tried to roll over but got tangled in a threadbare blanket. He sneezed as he pressed his face down into sawdust—and then everything crashed into his head, crystal clear and as sharp as if he hadn’t drunk himself into a stupor.

  “Glad to see you’re awake. It’ll be dawn in another half hour. Time for you to be on your way to destiny.”

  He stared at the smirking barkeep, wondering what he meant. Then that, too, came rushing back.

  “Duel,” he said, his voice hoarse.

  “You were challenged. You got to show up or ain’t nobody in town’ll have anything to do with a coward.”

  “Leclerc. I remember.” Mac sat up and threw back the blanket. He had spent the night pressed against the front of the bar, using the sawdust on the saloon floor as a mattress. With every bone in his body aching, he pulled himself to his feet and stretched. He regretted it immediately.

  The bartender sounded almost eager as he said, “You want me to get you a buggy to take you out there?”

  Mac patted his pockets. Empty. He tried to rem
ember if he had spent it all on whiskey or if he had passed out and been robbed. It hardly mattered. He was stone broke, and he was in a world of trouble.

  “Evie.”

  “That the girl’s name? She must be special for you to tangle with a killer like Pierre Leclerc.”

  “Eight men killed in duels,” Mac croaked out. His voice sounded rougher than sandpaper. That matched the way his brain began to feel. The instant of clarity faded against a surging tide of hangover.

  “Well, no, me and the boys got to discussin’ that number and decided it’s not true.”

  “What? He hasn’t killed that many men?”

  “Nope. It’s only seven. You’ll be the eighth.”

  Again thoughts of hightailing it raced through his brain, but he knew that wasn’t possible. What would Evie think of him? He would give his life for her. She was that special. If Leclerc had told the truth and their parents had arranged a marriage between her and Pierre, he had to prevent it. He had to save her from what would be a terrible life. One look at the younger Leclerc told even a casual observer that he would cheat on her and treat her badly.

  “I have to get my gun.”

  “As the one what got challenged, you get to choose the weapon. Usually, you get a choice between two matched pistols. I don’t reckon Leclerc will give a fig what you use.”

  “Got to hurry. It’s going to be dawn soon.” Mac stumbled to the doorway and saw the faint traces of false dawn slipping from the sky. He didn’t have much time.

  On increasingly steady feet, he made his way to the stable where he kept his horse and often slept because he lacked money for a hotel. He made sure the horse was fed as he pawed through his saddlebags for the Smith & Wesson Model 3 he carried. He slung his gun belt around his middle and strapped it on. The heavy .44-caliber pistol weighed him down. A few steps around the stable settled the gun into place.

  He hadn’t worn it much in town while he was courting Evie. The bosses at the few odd jobs he’d held frowned on janitors and cooks’ assistants packing iron while they worked. He had considered getting a job as a bouncer at one of the Storyville brothels or even at a saloon like the one where he’d spent the night, but jobs that didn’t require him fighting it out with the customers appealed more to him.

  “All right, boy. We’re going to settle a score.” He saddled his stallion, led it outside, stepped up, and rode out to Market Street before heading north.

  The whole time he had been in New Orleans, he had never been to the Dueling Oaks, two massive trees in a park outside town. There hadn’t been any reason for him to stray in this direction. Now he wished he had at least ridden past to get the lay of the land.

  He had never fought a duel before. He’d never even shot a man, but he’d heard stories. Check for sun in the eyes. Keep the light to your back and turn to the side to reduce the other gunman’s target. A dozen thoughts like that crashed through his head, confusing him.

  One thing he remembered on the way was to draw his gun and break it open. He looked down at the cylinder filled with .44-caliber brass cartridges, except the chamber where the hammer rested. Would Leclerc agree to a duel using five rounds, or was he honor bound to demand only one? There were too many things Mac didn’t know about dueling.

  He entered the meadow and saw the two oaks against the faint light of dawn. He took a deep breath, hoping it would settle his nerves. It didn’t. He rode to the trees and looked around. He was alone.

  It hadn’t occurred to him that Leclerc might not show up. Here he had been worrying about not having a second or how many paces to take before turning and firing. With a slight shift in the saddle, he grabbed for his iron and drew it. Face to face suited him better. He wasn’t any fancy gunslick, but he was quick enough. Maybe Leclerc wouldn’t want to face a cowboy who dueled like that.

  “Show your true colors, Pierre Leclerc,” he said, enjoying the sound of his voice in the early-morning air. “Let Evie know what she’s getting in the way of a husband.”

  He rode around between the trees as the dawn turned to pink and finally cast the first real light of day across the meadow. The shadows from the trees lengthened, then began to shrink as the sun rose. As the light filtered through the leaves, he felt better by the minute.

  Mac dismounted and paced around, beginning to feel his oats. He practiced his draw a few more times, aiming at first one tree trunk and then the other.

  “Yes, sir, I ran him off. He’s too lily-livered to face me.” His horse reared and tried to bolt. Mac pouched the iron he was holding and said, “Whoa, boy. Settle down. What’s spooking you?”

  It took a few minutes to gentle the horse. He secured the reins to a sapling growing several yards away from the two oaks. Curious as to what had frightened his horse, he went to one of the thick-boled trees and glanced around it.

  Mac stopped dead in his tracks. “My God!”

  He turned away from the horrific sight, then stopped. Every instinct in his body told him to flee. Only a considerable effort of will allowed him to return to the dead man tied spread-eagle on the far side of the giant oak tree.

  His stomach churned and threatened to empty whatever remained in it when he saw that Micah Holdstock’s throat had been slashed with such savagery that he had almost been decapitated. Whether he had been tied to the tree and killed or murdered and then strung up was a question that Mac couldn’t answer as he felt utter shock setting in.

  Not that it mattered. Holdstock was very, very dead.

  Mac inched closer and saw that the bloody knife used to sever the older man’s throat had been stuck into the tree trunk.

  “No, no, no!” Hand shaking, he gripped the knife’s handle and pulled hard to free the blade. He stared at the murder weapon.

  It was his knife, beyond doubt. The last time he remembered having it was when he had used the thin blade to open the French doors leading into Evie’s bedroom. He reached behind him to the sheath at the small of his back, hoping against hope that his knife still rested there and this was a duplicate.

  The sheath was empty.

  This was his knife. The murder weapon that had slashed his would-be father-in-law’s throat was his.

  When he thought things could not get worse, he heard hoofbeats in the distance, approaching at a gallop.

  “Leclerc,” he breathed. Not knowing what else to do, he slid the knife into his sheath and went to his horse, taking the reins and pulling it around. The horse shied from the coppery smell of fresh blood. “I’ve got to deal with Leclerc, and then—”

  His eyes went wide in surprise when he saw not Pierre Leclerc and his seconds riding to the Dueling Oaks but rather a half dozen New Orleans policemen. There was no question as to their destination, nor that they had spotted him. The one riding in the lead pointed and called out for him to stop; then they all raced toward him.

  Mac looked around in panic. A coldness settled over him when he realized he had been framed. Someone had taken his knife and killed Micah Holdstock, then rousted the police to come out to arrest him. He touched the gun at his hip, then knew shooting it out with the officers coming after him would solve nothing—and likely make his situation worse even if he prevailed. Kill Micah Holdstock, the police would hunt him down. Kill four policemen and he would be dogged to the ends of the earth for the New Orleans police to extract revenge.

  With a speed he didn’t realize he possessed, he drew and fired four times. At least one slug hit the leading policeman’s horse and brought it down. That pained him, but it was his only chance. The horse collapsed and forced the others to veer away. This gave Mac a few precious seconds to mount and gallop away into the woods.

  The lawmen shouted and fired at him. He kept his head down and reached the stand of trees at the edge of the meadow, then cut off at an angle. He had to lose any pursuit. Mac didn’t know that much about hiding his trail, but what he did know, he used. Keeping to the fallen leaves helped eliminate hoofprints on the spongy earth. He avoided low-hanging limbs and tri
ed not to break branches or twigs. As he zigzagged through the trees, he came to a stream and splashed down in it a hundred yards, then left it in favor of a road leading back into town. Once he reached New Orleans, there wouldn’t be any need to cover his tracks.

  The hunt for him there would take a different tack.

  Any clues to his identity started with the Holdstock household. He had to reach Evie and talk to her. Getting her to come with him might be harder now, but they could still leave the city, maybe head into Texas and settle down there. She hadn’t been schooled in ways to survive on a ranch or farm, but she was smart. She could learn. She could learn, and they’d be together.

  Back in the city, he twisted through the maze of narrow streets and drew rein in front of the Holdstock house on Royal Street. His heart pounded when he realized he would be the one bringing the bad news of Micah Holdstock’s murder to Evie and her ma.

  With a quick kick, he got his leg back and over the horse to drop to the street. His legs were shaky, as much from fear of the police as from knowing his presence inside the house wasn’t likely to be well received. He took a deep breath that did nothing to settle his nerves. Hands out in front, he saw how they shook just a little.

  Knowing time mattered and he had little of it before the police came to this very door, he stepped forward and lifted the brass knocker. Deep in the house, echoes died away. He knocked again, shifting from one foot to the other and looking around. He expected the law to show up at any instant.

  Before he could knock again, the door opened. The butler looked down his nose at him.

  “Sir, you are not welcome here. The master has ordered the entire staff to keep you away from Miss Evangeline.”

  “Can you give her a message for me? I—”

  The butler tried to close the door. Mac moved too fast, shoving his foot out to stop it. He had to add his shoulder to the door to force it open. The butler staggered back and stared at him, not believing anyone would violate etiquette in such a boorish manner.

  “I need to talk to Evie. There’s been a terrible accident.”

  “There has, sir. You entered.”